


Tell Me With Your Hands That You're Never Leaving

by UniversallyEcho



Category: Soy Luna (TV)
Genre: Baking, F/M, Fluff, Sleepy Cuddles, the ending my babies deserve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-17 00:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21045278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniversallyEcho/pseuds/UniversallyEcho
Summary: “Are you trying to seduce me into baking with you?”Her tone is incredulous and she’s gaping at him, eyes wide, almost making him feel guilty. Almost.“Is it working?”Or; Ámbar just wants to close her eyes for a little while the others are partying downstairs, meanwhile, Simón is ready for a late night baking session.





	Tell Me With Your Hands That You're Never Leaving

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cynthia_Fangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cynthia_Fangirl/gifts).

> The title is taken from the song "Easy" by Camila Cabello

Ámbar let’s out a huff of air as she finally puts away the last white lawn chair inside the mansion. The night’s not technically over yet, but the looming clouds allude to a rain shower soon, and the party’s died down enough that she feels comfortable to start wrapping things up. 

Don’t get her wrong the party was great. Live music, good food, entertaining people. And she’s sure Luna’s enjoying herself thoroughly  — which she’s supposed to and probably deserves the most after everything she’s been through. It’s just, following these chaotic couple of months, Ámbar is ready to settle down into a normal routine again. One that  _ doesn’t _ involve extravagant get togethers. Alfredo will have to amuse himself with other activities for at least a solid year before Ámbar has recovered enough for another party.

Looking out from the mansion and onto the field where lingering guests remain, she’s reminded of the underlying cause of her slight unease. The one that she’s been trying to ignore.

Scattered into smaller groups of three and four, the only people still remaining were those from the roller jam. One would assume that after the roller performance, where she finally proved herself once and for all to be ‘The Newly Transformed Nice Ámbar Smith’, and after a general apology to the team for everything she’s done towards the group, that every friendship that she’d tried to burn bridges with before would revert back to its original nature. Of course, since things are never as easy as they should be with Ámbar, this is not exactly the case.

Taking a deep breath, she grips the back of one of the chairs with her left hand, letting the cool air of the nearing evening and slight dew calm her.

It’s not like she doesn’t want to be friends with them. Sure at first she might have thought they were all losers that could be brushed off, but then again, she also first thought that Simón was just a random guitarist with strange taste in fashion and an unusual resemblance to a golden retriever puppy only to now be da ting him, so that’s saying a lot about her judgement.

Sometimes though, it’s hard to make it through a conversation. She can’t tell if she’s misinterpreting something or if it’s self imposed and she’s imagined it all but it almost feels as though everyone’s waiting for her to mess up. Like she’s a bomb that people are anxiously anticipating to explode, despite the fact that it’s already been detonated. 

With Simón, it’s easy to be herself. And while she’s still trying to figure out who exactly that is, she can talk freely. She doesn’t have to filter her words or think twice before letting something out because she knows that Simón will understand her intention. If she rolls her eyes, she’s not disrespecting him or expressing her disinterest she’s just teasing him. And if it ever is the case where he doesn’t understand, he won’t be quick to judge, he’ll just ask what she meant.

That’s a luxury she can’t depend on with the others. 

  
  


She’s trying now to be her authentic self. Ever since she was little, she was taught that it didn’t matter what you felt or what you wanted to say, it was always better to do what would grab the most attention and in turn give you more power. Now that she’s learning to undo the problematic traits she used to live by, following her truth is important to her. When having a conversation with some of these people though, where she knows a sarcastic remark will be taken much more seriously than just what it is, it’s hard to express what she really wants to say without worrying that it’ll be taken the wrong way.

It doesn’t always end badly. Just before she started rearranging the furniture, Delfi and her had a great conversation about dating someone in the rollerband, and what that would mean for them when the boys started touring. 

Sometimes though, after this much socialising she was left a little burnt out and done with it all.

Which is why she found herself currently under the protection of her roof as everyone else still mingled outside. 

“What are you doing in here all by yourself?” 

A familiar voice calls from beside her and she turns to find Monica, holding empty trays that were once filled with food, probably to return them to the kitchen. _ Seriously, where was the maid if they were the ones doing all the cleaning? _

“Just needed to catch my breath a little.” She answers eventually with a sigh, knowing that Monica of all people would understand that she needed a little break.

“They’re a bit rowdy, huh?” 

Taking a step closer so they’re standing side by side, Ámbar follows Monica’s gaze towards the crowd as the older women continues,

“You know it seems like it’s finally winding down. So there’s really not much of a point in going back out again when everyone who's staying will start turning in for the night.” 

Ámbar smiles up to Monica, grateful for the empathetic meaning of her words. She considers following through with Monica’s suggestion and using this opportunity to escape into her room for a while. She searches for Simón in the crowd, wondering if he would mind her leaving for a minute, but once she spots him her answer is clear. 

A smile graces Ámbar’s face as she notices Simón chattering away happily with Nina and Luna. He seems happy and entertained, not at all preoccupied with searching for Ámbar which makes her heart soar. She knows that while this month has been hard on her, it’s almost been worse for Simón. To watch someone you love so dearly struggling and hurt, knowing that there’s nothing you can do but stand at their side hoping they’ll come to you for support must have been torture for him. Seeing him now though, bright, talkative and carefree, Ámbar feels more at ease knowing he’ll be okay if she steps out.

She looks back again to Monica, nodding her head in agreement to her previous statement. 

“I’ll let them know you went to your room earlier to rest a little” Monica replies, understanding Ámbar’s nod.

Ámbar gives her a semi-hug, the only position she can with Monica’s arms full, in a show of gratitude, thanking her, before heading upstairs.

She makes her way up the stairs like she has a thousand times before and relishes in the silence and peace that comes with isolation. Even if it is just for a minute, she’s going to make the most of it. 

Her door opens with a creak and she walks in, physically wincing at the mess that she had left it in. There hadn’t been much time for her to clean up before the party, and since she had yelled at every worker in the mansion not to step foot in her room months prior, it was an absolute disaster. It looked as if a tornado of black paint and newly washed laundry had crashed her room and left everything in its wake in shambles.

She spends the next couple minutes cleaning up what she can by; making the bed, putting all trophies she’d broken during her fit of rage in a separate pile so it’s easily disposable for later and picking up the odd couple of articles of clothing here and there. 

While this helps clear her mind, and even brightens the room, black spray paint marks continue to mock her from where they’re stained. She has tried, with the help of Simón, to scrub them off with bleach, disinfectant,  _ anything _ really that she was recommended during her online search. Even so, there they stay, as dark as ever and completely disrupting the new theme of her room. She’s glad Simón forced her to order new pieces online, as any day they should arrive, still she can’t help but resent the hardware store that let her so easily buy such a permanent product. There should be a warning on each bottle of paint. 

_ Beware: Product is difficult to remove and should not be used in moments of emotional distress even if you really think the outcome will add to your aesthetic grunge rebellion. _

She makes a mental note to annoy Ramiro into coming over this weekend so she can coerce him into putting together each piece of furniture for her. The last time Simón tried to help Ámbar with her redecoration project, they got  _ distracted _ . Let’s just say Ámbar ended up with three more hickeys then she started with, two less layers of clothes and a deconstructed dresser still in it’s box. Besides, Ramiro was easier to force anyway. She was getting too soft to trick Simón into doing everything. 

Accepting that there’s not much she can do about the room situation, she focuses her attention on something that  _ can _ be fixed, the enormous headache her tight ponytail is causing. With a fluidity and speed that can only be gained with years of practice, she twists out each hairclip steadied against her skull that were used to carefully hold everything in place. Bobby pin by bobby pin, she works fast, until all that’s left of her hairdo is her head of semi-gelled back hair and a mountain of hair accessories.

She almost considers not even bothering with a shower at all, instead jumping straight into bed for a nap but the thought is dismissed as quickly as it was invoked. 

She takes her time under the hot steamy spray, distracting herself with hair treatments and exfoliators as to not have her thoughts wander to topics she wishes not to bring up. Finally, when even a second longer in water would result in her skin pruning, she steps out. Patting herself dry and changing into warmest pajamas she owns, she crawls onto her bed.

In fear of actually falling asleep, she doesn’t even sliver under her covers. She stays on top of the sheets where it’s safe and wills herself to fight the drowsiness. 

As much as it pains her to say, she won’t allow herself to doze off. Not even a short nap since it will inevitably end in a full night of sleep. Which would be dire as she still has so much to do tonight. Her eyes find the folders sitting on her chaotic vanity table, reminding her of roller manager duties she has yet to complete. Not to mention she hasn’t even started homework from her online university courses. Which are due _ tomorrow.  _ There’s absolutely no way that Ámbar will log in with imperfect and half-done assignments, especially considering it’s still the first week of her new course and first impressions are still being made.

That being said, it can’t hurt to close her eyes for a minute, could it? Just one minute. Sixty seconds. She’ll even count to make sure she doesn’t actually fall asleep. Rolling onto her back with her head tilted at her ceiling, her eyes flutter close as she begins to mentally count.

_ One, two, three, four…. _

Ámbar finds herself falling in and out of consciousness. The familiar world of dreamland so close that she can almost see it, but her will is stubborn enough to chase it away. Barely aware of her surroundings, she is only alerted of a second presence when her bed shifts under the weight of another body.

Knowing who it is immediately, based on his vanilla oak scent, she doesn’t waste a second to roll over slumping into him. She gives a hum of appreciation at the heat radiating off of him and consequently, onto her. 

He chuckles, but not before wrapping an arm across her torso to pull her even closer. 

“I thought you were asleep” He comments from his position, still holding her against him, almost cradling her. Ámbar has no complaints.

“I was until  _ someone _ interrupted me.” She mutters drowsily. The statement comes out a lot less annoyed than she intended it to but it’s hard to muster displeasure when he’s twirling a strand of her hair, his nails catching lightly against her scalp. 

His tongue brushes the shell of her ear as he speaks, “Would you rather I leave?” 

His voice is raspy and deep, sending shivers down Ámbars body as her pulse jumps at the change of his tone. She raises her arms slowly, tracing a steady path from his torso to his shoulders, looping them against his neck to pull herself closer to eye level. 

She shrugs nonchalantly, even though he knows from the way her breath hitched as her hands explored his body that she wasn’t as unaffected as she was trying to seem. 

“You’ve already woken me, the least you can do is make it up to me.”

He grins, running the pad of his thumb along the notches of her spine through the fabric of her top. “And how do you think I should do that?”

“You're creative, you’ll think of something.” 

Ámbar suppresses a sigh as Simón brushes his nose against her cheek. His hands move to cup her face, his thumb caressing the edge of her jaw. Locking eye contact with her, he stays like that for a moment, their faces so close that she can feel each huff of air as he exhales.

Ámbar’s heart does somersaults in her chest and she wouldn’t be surprised if he could hear it’s irrational beat from where he was. When he held her face as gently as he did, staring with such an honest and earnest expression, it always left Ámbar a little stunned. 

Stunned that someone as caring and kind as Simón could ever be with her. And not just be with her either, but actually  _ see _ her. See the good in her, past her facade and past mistakes. She never cared about being a ‘good person’ just a successful one, no matter what extremities it would take. Somehow, he made her want to try to be better. 

She wasn’t exaggerating when she said she couldn’t have changed without him.

When she said it, he thought she was grateful that he stayed by her side. Which isn’t  _ technically _ wrong. She  _ is  _ appreciative to have him cheering her on during her hardships and being the only person to ever truly believe in her, even when her own mind didn’t. What she really meant that night though, was that he’s the only person who could convince her that being open and vulnerable was worth it. 

Until the moment where she first confessed her love to him, only to have him doubt and dismiss her, she had no reason to try to be a good person. After all, manipulating others was easy and routine and always got her what she wanted eventually. It didn’t matter if some people didn’t like her as a consequence. That is until Simón joined that list, and she realised he meant more to her than any trophy or desperate attempt to make her godmother proud ever could.

Noticing Ámbar’s absentminded pause, Simón’s thumb stop where it’s making tiny circles against her skin to send her a curious look. 

She answers his question with a kiss.

Her lips crash against his, hard and bruising. He’s shocked at first by her assertive initiation, not even a second later though he’s smiling into the kiss and hitching her leg on top of his own, until she’s forced to roll on top of him. The warmth of him felt like it was seeping into her bones, and the sigh that escaped her was utterly pleased and contented. 

Just as he starts scattering kisses down her jaw and onto her neck, her stomach growls.

Ámbar tries to ignore the situation as best as she can. She adjusts her neck to the side so Simón has more space to wander and even moves her hand so it’s gripping his hair when he tries to look up to her concerned. 

He narrows his eyes at this action and gently removes her hand with his own before asking, “When did you last eat?”

She internally groans and scolds her appetite for having terrible timing.  _ They were just getting to the good part. _

“I ate dinner, but I wasn’t expecting to still be up.” In hindsight, she can see now that a smoothie probably wasn’t enough to last her the rest of the day. Especially with how late it was now.

“I can go grab you something from downstairs.” Ámbar’s only response back is to bury her face in Simón’s neck. She tightens her hold on him. 

_ There’s no way she’s going to surrender her heat source right now. _

“Ámbar” He murmurs, in a tone that Ámbar thinks is supposed to resemble firm and unyielding but she can hear the amused smile he has on his face giving him away, “Let’s go downstairs.”

He tugs at her arm in a weak strive to untangle her from his limbs. All he actually manages to do though is to frustrate Ámbar into sounding a noise of protest that’s only slightly muffled from against his collarbone.

“Come on we can make cookies.”

At the lack of reaction, he tries again, “Chocolate chip cookies that we’ll eat straight out of the oven.” 

She’s not sure where he got the idea that cookies would get her out of bed.  _ Has he even seen her eat a cookie before? Actually, when even was the last time she had a cookie? _ A warm chewy, soft chocolate chip cookie with a cup of tea was starting to sound very appealing though. 

Noticing that Ámbar’s interest was piqued, he continues his efforts on convincing her, “It won’t even take that long. I’m sure we have all the ingredients in the fridge and we can even make extra for everyone tomorrow.”

As if a bucket of icy cold water was poured on her, all interest in going to the kitchen for a midnight baking lesson is jolted out of her.

“We should just ask Monica to make some tomorrow morning.” She justifies her statement quickly by following up with, “I mean she  _ is _ a chef. It’ll turn out better.”

There is no way in hell that Ámbar is going to allow herself to be ridiculed for her baking skills. Or lack thereof. Sure, Simón probably won’t say anything but if Matteo joins them for breakfast, _ which he has been for the past week _ , and finds out Ámbar had a hand in making them she’ll be humiliated. He’s never passed up a chance to retell embarrassing stories of her childhood, even more so if it’s about the time she almost gave everyone food poisoning. 

Simón’s expression becomes even more confused at her last second decision change. Deciding that she needs to amplify things a little if she wants to get out of this, she pretends to situate herself. Changing positions to make herself ‘more comfortable’ in turn increasing the friction Simón feels and distracting him from his unattainable baking aspirations.

He seems to get a hint since he finally drops the subject and gets back to mouthing the skin across her neck. Now that she was sitting up high enough to be fully on his lap, Simón has full access to her body, which he used to his advantage instantly. 

With his mouth busy marking her delicate skin he uses one hand to play with the hem of her top, his knuckles just barely grazing the skin underneath. She whines in complaint of him taking too long. He shuts her up by pressing his lips firmly against hers. 

Ámbar finds herself falling into the sensation of bliss that comes with Simón. He nips on her bottom lip while the hand she was growing frustrated at before finally makes its way up her top and onto her waist. The calluses on his fingers, proudly earned from playing guitar, roughly brush up and down her back, in combination to their kiss, until she’s breathless and a little light headed. He starts separating himself from their entanglement which Ámbar assumes is to take off his shirt, or maybe hers and she’s about to give him a helping hand when — he doesn’t. He doesn’t go to remove his shirt, or her shirt or even  _ any _ article of clothing. He just stops touching her and is watching her reaction.

Dazed, it takes Ámbar a couple of seconds of blinking for her brain to process what’s happening.

As soon as she goes to open her mouth though, he beats her to it by brushing back some of the hair covering her shoulder, his touch long-drawn-out — “I feel a little burnt out. Maybe I’ll have more energy to continue this after some cookies.”

Ámbar is stunned to say the least. Her sweet, naive and innocent boyfriend was smirking at her dangerously after working her up into a state of desperation before halting to sweet talk her into descending to the kitchen together.

“Are you trying to seduce me into baking with you?”

Her tone is incredulous and she’s gaping at him, eyes wide, almost making him feel guilty. Almost. 

“Is it working?” 

At the instantaneous glare that is sent his way, Simón attempts to soothe her, “Okay, okay, to be fair, you started it.” 

And fine, he kind of has a point, so she guesses that means she can’t use this example of foul play to guilt trip him but that doesn’t mean she’s happy about it. In fact, she just barely manages to hold herself back from sticking her tongue out at him.  _ If he’s going to be childish about this she will too. _

She can’t believe how much she’s rubbed off on him. They’ve been together for less than a month and he’s already started learning how to manipulate her. He was becoming more like her.

_ She was doomed.  _

* * *

It’s a surprise to even Ámbar that after all that deflecting she finds herself standing in the middle of her kitchen, with a measuring cup in one hand and baking soda in the other, a quarter past midnight.

The once beautifully pristine marble counter is coated in a miscellaneous mixture of different powders and dry ingredients that hadn’t made it into any of four bowls in front of her.

See this is why Ámbar doesn’t bake.  _ Well, you know, other than the fact that she was raised by a super stern, no-nonsense guardian who refused to allow her to do any activity if it wasn’t to “prepare her for her future” or “build character”.  _ But also because it was messy. Mainly because it was messy.

“Are you really that scared to get your hands dirty?” Simón teases from across the counter. He’s got a sprinkling of flour across the bridge of his nose, and his fingers are covered in spices. Apparently it’s not proper cookie dough unless you make it from scratch and use your hands to mix. When Ámbar kindly suggested they use a store bought dough he stared back at her unimpressed and betrayed like it was the most absurd comment he’d ever heard. She hasn’t mentioned another proposal since.

“It’s not that I’m worried about getting dirty, because we are honestly so past that no health inspector would ever approve of what we’re doing. But I can’t add this in yet, because you refuse to tell me how much is needed in the recipe.”

“I keep telling you that you don’t need measurements, just put in an amount that feels right.” 

_ Feels right.  _ Like the work-in-progress cooking dough has thoughts and feelings and was expressing intensely how much baking soda _ felt right.  _

As if he’s able to read her thoughts, Simón reaches his hand across the countertops until it’s above the box, he reaches down to pinch a generous portion of baking soda, meets her eyes and drops it deliberately into the bowl.

_ A pinch. He couldn’t have just said a pinch? _

“Oh come on!” She bursts out, not believing for a minute that Simón just inherently knew the perfect amount to put in.“You don’t even have a recipe do you?” 

Amusement tugs at his lips as he watches Ámbar’s slow descent to madness.

“We’ve wasted all this time creating the strangest concoction that doesn’t even come from a recipe, and now we’re going to put it in the oven, only for it to explode and start another fire!” 

Remarkably he didn’t argue, just crossed sides so he was leaning behind her, his two hands covering her own to show her how to fold the dry ingredients with the wet.

The new position, and added physical contact quieted Ámbar enough that he could guide her into finishing the dough. Though that could also be due to the fact that Simón nose was now nuzzling against her neck, making it literally impossible for her to complain.

“I don’t need a list of rules from a chef who has never even baked in this kitchen before to tell me how to make a snack I’ve made since I was five.” He murmurs the words, but his close proximity to her ear allows her to hear him clearly. 

“You don’t even use proper tools!” She retorts automatically, tilting her head up to make eye contact with him. Eye contact that he very obviously tries to avoid when shrugging, 

“They’re cookies, how hard could it be -”

“NO!” She exclaims, probably a little too loudly, while turning to face him directly. 

“No, don't ask ‘how hard could it be’, the universe has enough fun making sure all our ideas end in disaster  _ without _ us trying to challenge it.” The whisk in her right hand acts as an intimidating weapon of sorts, at least it would if the bit of flour previously on Simón’s face hadn’t transferred to her cheek.

He can’t help himself. He reaches to pinch Ámbar’s cheek. She squeaks in indignation before turning back to the bowl, deciding it’s best to just blatantly ignore him.

“Baking is about feeling. I was taught by my abuela that a person’s best measuring tool is their hands.”

It’s a thought that Ámbar doesn’t think her mind will ever be able to wrap around, so she doesn’t even bother trying to ask about it. All she needs to do is make it through tonight and then she’ll avoid all kitchen appliances for the rest of her existence.

Glancing around the messy kitchen, Ámbar busies herself with cleaning the used measuring cups, dusting flour and cocoa off the bottoms before placing them in the sink.

Reaching over to pick up the bag of chocolate chips, Simón brushes his arm against hers flushing another rush of nerves through her body. 

Ámbar watches in judgment as he takes the bag and starts eating the chocolate in small handfuls. 

“You’re going to ruin your appetite.” She realizes how alike to Sharon she sounds saying that sentence but she can’t help herself. She did not slave away to make these cookies only for him to deem himself too full.

Unfortunately, Simón doesn’t realize exactly how serious she was because he continues snacking. The only noticeable trait that reveals he heard her is the slight narrowing of his eyes.

Squaring her shoulders, she resolved to wrestle the chocolate away from him if need be, but he was a step ahead of her.

As soon as she steps close enough to touch him, he twists the bag away from her reach and takes a step forward, trapping her between him and the counter. Ámbar is tall, but still not quite tall enough to reach her hand up and grab the bag away from him, even on her tippy toes. Taking pride in the fact that he managed to immobilise her, Simón takes another chocolate chip and slowly makes a show of putting it in his mouth in victory. Ámbar watches sullenly until a brilliant idea strucks her.

Once the chocolate chip touches his lips, Ámbar surges forward planting her lips around chocolate chip and successfully transferring the sweet into her mouth. He watches, grinning as a smile graces her face while she chews boastfully. 

His eyes trail down her neck as she swallows and lingers at her collarbones, that are barely covered from her thing pajama shirt.

And then he grabs her face, like he did in her bedroom but rougher this time, firmer. She has just enough time to clear the space behind her before he’s lifting her onto the counter, angling her forward so she can take advantage of the newfound height. She spreads her legs, coaxing him between them so she can latch them around his torso. 

He pushes his tongue into her mouth, fueling the sensations that simmer around her. Her hands knead the nape of his neck, sifting through his hair.

She chases his lips, mirroring his desire to be closer to her. Simón groans against her mouth, held there by her insistent hand on his neck. He tilts his head again, lips skating over her jaw. She shivers as one hand moves to grip her waist and the only coherent thought she can form is that if anyone chooses this moment to walk in, things would get awkward fast. 

Later on, in a few hours, when Ámbar is cozy and cuddled up in bed with Simón and armed with cookies and warm milk to help her make her way through her to-do list, she’ll reflect on this moment and wonder how on earth they got away with it. How, when the backyard is filled with rowdy and nosey teenagers and paranoid adult supervision did they manage to make their own little hideaway world. She shouldn’t be surprised, Simón always made her feel like she was floating on earth, like they were in their own universe completely unaware and protected from reality’s obstacles. Even so, with the noise they were creating, at least one person should have dropped in to check what they were doing.

Right now though, she’ll just continue returning Simón’s kisses. Each maddening and painstakingly slow and somehow so intimate that she ached for more, no matter how long they stood there studying each other.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what it is, but for some reason, every single song I listen to reminds me of Simbar. Maybe it's just my subconscious reminding me how much I miss them but it's really making my heart suffer. If I have to explain one more time to my friends why there are certain albums and songs that they're not allowed to play around me, I'll actually go insane.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this fic. It's a little longer than I intended it to be, and once again there's no plot basically just fluff. But at this point you guys really should have just expected as much.
> 
> Right now I'm working on two fics that are long and plot heavy compared to my normal fics but they're taking a lot more effort to write because it's something I'm not used to. I think you can expect at least one of them to be up within two weeks at the maximum but we'll see.
> 
> As always, I have a tumblr (theuniversezecho) where you can reach me with your ideas, prompts or suggestions!


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